I Hate Weddings
by BriannaShenae
Summary: Weddings are beautiful for the bride and groom - but for some guests, they can be nightmares. What happens when negative feelings find a positive - and positively cuddly - outlet? Some drug references.


With a weary chuckle and pleading exhaustion, John escaped the coaxing arms of Mrs Hudson, who was trying to draw him in to their third consecutive dance. The indulgent smile died on John's face as he scanned the reception hall for the fifth time in an hour. Where was his best man? Sherlock had been here one minute, and gone the next – a common enough occurrence in the daily life of John Watson, but unfailingly nerve-wracking every time.

John sighed, then hastily nodded to the new Mrs Watson, who had caught his gaze from across the dance floor with eyebrows raised in question and concern. The euphoria from referring to Mary as Mrs Watson filled John, and he relaxed as he made his way to her. Sherlock would surely be safe for another hour...

* * *

Staring at his shoes through half-lidded eyes, Sherlock felt a twinge of guilt dance through his brain.

_John would be so disappointed._

Lazily, Sherlock dismissed the uneasy feeling – his **best friend** had no right to judge. And anyway, it was impossible to feel truly guilty or contrite whilst his mind and body were awash in the chemical Nirvana he had found. He was finally – blissfully – removed from the loneliness, the discomfort, the bitter irony that as John Watson completed his perfect life, he damaged some of the most important pieces of Sherlock's own.

The heavenly poison surging through Sherlock's veins disconnected him from the pain of being so utterly alone. No John. No Mycroft. Even Molly had her substandard doppelganger fiancé...

_Molly! She cares, she still cares. She still...cares..._

Shaking the synthetic apathy off, if only momentarily, Sherlock hailed a cab.

_Molly still cares._

* * *

"Honestly Tom! 'Meat dagger'?"

"Oh, and I'm to assume you could do any better than me?"

Standing in the hallway, free from the eavesdroppers and gossipers in the reception hall, Molly raised her eyebrows at the possible second meaning behind her fiancé's words. Tom was straying towards a dangerous topic.

"I'm not your bloody Sherlock, Molly"

And there it was. A heated blush flooded the physician's cheeks as her embarrassment cast her eyes to Tom's shoes.

"That's not... he's not..." she stammered, "What's Sherlock got to do with anything?"

Tom sneered.

"Precious _Sherlock_ would never embarrass you like I did!" he said mockingly.

"I thought you idolised Sherlock," Molly exclaimed, "You practically worship him!"

Bristling, Tom snarled, "I did not – and do not – worship anyone! And as for idolising the man, I find it woefully difficult to do so whilst fighting him for my fiancé's affections!"

The couple stared each other down, both silently refusing to be in the wrong, until the covert stares of the newlyweds from the dance floor prompted Molly to step back.

"Perhaps we should just go back to the flat..."

"Of course. This was extremely improper"

Subdued and seething, they made their apologies to the bride and groom, and then wound their way through the guests to the exit. Apparently unable to resist, Tom muttered, "I'm surprised you didn't suggest leaving sooner. He left hours ago"

"And I'm surprised you noticed!" Molly snapped, "I didn't realise you could see Sherlock while staring shamelessly at other women!"

"Well! Maybe if you would-"

* * *

Accusations and arguments followed the couple home, before a ceasefire was agreed to upon reaching the flat. An icy silence instead descended, leaving the unhappy couple to their individual, bitter thoughts. Molly unlocked the door, resignedly allowing a huffy Tom to push his way inside first. Anger, it would seem, temporarily disabled his normal gentlemanly traits.

She stood wearily in the entry. A moment of peace, finally – until an outraged huff and a string of curses came from the lounge. Molly quickly followed, only to encounter Tom staring murderously at the sofa, upon which was curled up, sound asleep, a rather scruffy-looking Sherlock Holmes, still in his tux.

Molly stifled an incredulous giggle as Tom turned his ire on her.

"Why is he in our house?! How did he get in?"

"I gave him a key Tom, and this is my house, not yours"

"Excuse me? I am your future husb-"

Tom's rant was cut off by a frantic Molly's shushes. Sherlock was stirring on the sofa.

"Tom, go into the kitchen, now!

Her fiancé resisted, while Molly's small hands pushed ineffectually against his chest.

"Molly, no!"

"Hush Tom, go! Just go"

"Molly?"

With a final shove, Molly turned to Sherlock, now sitting up and staring at her. Flustered, she smiled quickly and spoke: "Oh hello Sherlock! I'll be just a second, talking to Tom", before disappearing into the kitchen. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he listened to the idiot Tom start in.

"You gave HIM a key! You and I are engaged, and you give the key to our flat to another man?"

Molly – sweet, timid Molly – could apparently hold her own.

"He's MY friend, and it's MY flat Tom! I'll give a key to whomever I please!"

Sherlock grinned lazily as Tom took in an angry breath, and then let it out as a scoff.

"Your 'friend', is he? You're a liar, Molly Hooper, and we both know it. You're so in love with HIM that you even went and got a look-a-like boyfriend when the sociopath wouldn't love you back!"

When Molly gave a horrified gasp, the aforementioned sociopath raised his voice so as to be heard in the kitchen behind him.

"A cheap imitation at best, Tom"

Thunderous footsteps alerted Sherlock to Tom's approach a fraction too late to prevent a blinding blow to the side of the detective's face. Molly allowed a tiny scream to slip out before seizing Tom by the shirt and pulling him away.

"You should leave, Tom," Molly insisted, facing away to inspect the potential damage to Sherlock's cheekbones – she had somewhat of a soft spot for them. As she fussed over him, she noticed the absence of sound or movement.

Turning back to Tom, Molly saw the expression of pure loathing marring his features.

"I," Tom spoke, sputtering with unconcealed rage, "will NOT marry someone who loves someone else. Who puts **anyone** else before her husband"

Straightening, Molly took two confident steps towards her fiancé, carefully removing the ring on her left hand.

"Then I suppose you should find someone else to marry, because I will not marry someone who loves only himself"

Engagement ring resting now in an incredulous Tom's palm, Molly turned away.

"Goodbye, Tom."

* * *

"I am truly sorry you had to do that, Molly"

"It wasn't your fault Sherlock. It was going to happen sooner or later"

"Well then, I'm sorry I catalysed it sooner"

Silence fell between the pair. Molly revelled in the quiet, her newfound peace – sitting next to Sherlock, listening to his steady breathing, and letting Tom disappear. Suddenly, with a tiny sigh, Sherlock lowered his head onto Molly's shoulder and relaxed minutely. Molly's heart started racing, though she tried her very hardest to quell her body's reaction to his touch. Sherlock Holmes, seeking physical contact for comfort? Something was very wrong.

"I just wanted to dance, Molly"

The words were just a whisper, his breath tickling her neck and sending a shiver down Molly's spine. Her analytical mind, however, still managed to piece together the clues, in a display of deduction Sherlock would have been proud of.

_Lethargy. Desire for touch. Relaxed. Apathy... Damnit Sherlock._

"Sherlock Holmes. Are you high?"

Sherlock's silence was telling. Molly's fists clenched, but despite her tension, the unrepentant sod kept his head on her shoulder.

"Please Molly," he murmured, "I'd say I'm sorry, but I needed to"

Her fury rose.

"You needed to?! You need to be a slave to this stuff?" she cried, standing and facing him, "MY Sherlock wouldn't let anything rule him this way!"

Unperturbed, Sherlock looked into her eyes.

"I... This helps me. Makes me forget. Takes the pain away"

Molly's anger quickly faded, but she stubbornly refused to show it. However, she did concede to sitting down beside him again. The huffy facade was shattered when Sherlock, in an uncharacteristic show of possessiveness, wrapped his long arms around Molly's waist, pulled her tight to his chest, and gently rested his chin on top of her head. Molly inadvertently allowed it, shocked as she was by Sherlock's behaviour and more than a little affected by the intimacy of their seating arrangement.

"I'm so terribly lonely Molly," came Sherlock's near-silent whisper, "Everyone has someone, while the great Sherlock Holmes thinks himself above all that tripe. I just... I do need people, however much I wish it weren't so"

Silence reigned for a few moments, as Molly repositioned to look Sherlock in the eye. Not that it helped her concentrate on her words.

"That doesn't excuse the drugs Sherlock. You promised.

"Molly, these words sound like the excuses of an addict, I know. But tonight, I truly needed it. I'm suddenly not Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes, I'm just me. I relax, become someone else, with no memories, no worries. It was just this one last time; I needed to not be alone tonight"

"Sherlock, I-"

"Molly, I came here tonight because I thought of you first when I was searching for someone who still cared. Is that not the case?"

Scandalised, Molly cried, "What? No! No, of course I care!"

Sherlock didn't respond, simply staring at Molly, assessing. Then, without a word, he held his hands out – not taking this time, but asking. With a tiny smile at the innocent look on his face, Molly delicately settled back into Sherlock's arms. Hot breath tickled her ear as Sherlock whispered: "Thank you, Molly Hooper" before the merest brush of his kiss touched her hair.

Molly shivered, and then again when Sherlock chuckled, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. His fingers tightened on her waist, and he kissed her head again.

"I heard you and Tom, you know, in the kitchen," said Sherlock.

"Please, don't..."

"I thought you had moved on?" he probed.

Molly sighed.

"Sherlock, I refuse to discuss this while you're high. Leave me one thing"

The infuriating man gave another small laugh, but acquiesced, shifting Molly fully into his lap to accommodate a closer hold. Settling into it and steadfastly ignoring her racing thoughts, Molly decided to just enjoy it. Like Sherlock had said – it was just for tonight.

* * *

Molly stirred to find the world moving around her. Confusion rose in her still-dozing brain, until low words sounded behind her.

"It's okay – I'm just taking you to your room. We both drifted off. A miracle, considering how horrifically uncomfortable that lounge is!"

Dextrously, Sherlock opened the bedroom door while carrying Molly, closed it again, then gently set her down on the bed. Then a metallic rasp reached Molly's ears, and she turned her head to find Sherlock at her back, fingers on the now open zipper of her dress.

"Sherlock! Stop!" she cried, and his head snapped up, lovely face guilty.

"Molly, I – I swear, I meant nothing insidious, I only hoped to make you comfortable! Truly, I mean it. I'm sorry"

"I can do it just fine myself, thank you. Now turn around please"

As she shed her dress and pulled on a nightie, Molly heard Sherlock shuffling in the corner. Finished, she raced for the bed and got under the covers, freezing. Settled in her new nest, Molly turned in time to see Sherlock making for the bed in a similar fashion, wearing trousers and nothing else.

Feigning outrage, a secretly pleased Molly glared at him.

"And what do you think you're doing?" she teased.

"Like I said," Sherlock grinned, "that lounge is honestly dreadful!"

"Tough!" she said snootily, turning her back to him.

A set of ice cold fingers brushed her waist as Sherlock pulled himself closer, causing Molly to wriggle in protest as he whined, "And it's freezing! You couldn't be so cruel as to leave me out there in the cold, could you?"

"This isn't like you Sherlock! Cuddling, teasing – what's happened to you?"

Molly was joking, but then a lurch ripped through her stomach as her own words hit home, and she answered her own question.

"Oh. This is just because of... okay" she sighed sadly.

"Molly, you are a medical professional. You know as well as I that the drugs just mellow me out, make me feel better. That's all."

Her silence betrayed Molly, and Sherlock once again moved her, bringing her to meet his sincere eyes.

"It can only suppress feelings – it can't create them"

Those beautiful eyes flickered down to Molly's lips, but she stopped him before he permanently broke her heart.

"Don't," she breathed, "It will hurt too much when it ends"

The detective sighed, but relinquished his hold. He rolled back to his side of the rather narrow bed, shifting around once or twice to get comfortable.

"Oh go on then," Molly laughed, deliberately lightening the atmosphere, "take them off, I can tell you're dying to!"

Sherlock coughed self-consciously, unbuttoning his trousers and attempting to remove them in the confines of the bed linen. Casting a discreet glance at Molly, whose back was still to him, he darted out of the bed, shucked the clothes, and jumped back under the covers just as quickly. Molly's sleepy voice startled him.

"I know you like tight clothes Sherlock, but I still would have guessed boxers – not briefs"

"Molly!" Sherlock whispered, aghast, "You didn't-?"

Giggling, Molly answered, "No I didn't, but thank you for confirming!"

"Oh!" he huffed, outsmarted for once.

"And," Molly continued, "you can forget about the snuggling. We are keeping this perfectly platonic"

"Yes ma'am," the detective replied cheekily.

Despite her words, Sherlock's arm found its way around Molly's waist within twenty minutes, followed by his hard, warm, half-naked body soon after, pressing against Molly's back in a delightfully intimate way.

_Platonic my arse_.

Molly drifted off, smiling sleepily.

* * *

_My intention was to leave it there, but I have ideas... please let me know if you feel this is a story that deserves more! xx_


End file.
